The Banes Family Legacy
by ladyofdarkstar
Summary: Mikaela returns to her family home to attend the funeral of her grandmother and to bury the secrets of her past. What she learns instead may rock the foundations of her future. Reviews are love!
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is my first Transformers story wherein the main character is not an OC. I hope I do not write Mikaela too far off from what cannon has laid out for her. ::Frets:: But I was challenged to write a Sam/Mikaela story and I felt compelled to answer that challenge. Hence, this idea was given life.

As always, I want to thank the amazing Razorgaze for all her hard work in editing the many crazy ideas I send to her. She is wonderful. Her story "Our Debt" is also wonderful. Go read it! :D The link is in my profile page.

I have made up the city of Englewood, Mississippi. At least I hope I have. Apologies to anyone that lives in Englewood if it indeed exists. . I needed a place to set this story and none of the towns I had researched really had what I wanted for this piece. I also made up the county of Mallard; at least I hope I have. Again, my apologies if these places exist. It's purely a coincidence and the real-life history (should it really exist) has absolutely no bearing on the events in this story.

Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers or anything in this story save for my OCs. Please don't sue. This is purely for fun.

* * *

It was said that it was always hard to come home. But it was so much worse when one had to do it alone.

Mikaela Banes let those words roam around inside her brain as the taxi pulled away, leaving her staring at her childhood home. Her heart raced inside her chest, her breath creating shallow puffs of steam in the air. So much of her wished that this could have been a happy homecoming. Every holiday season, Sam would talk with mock-resignation about how much of a pain it was to see his overprotective mother and father. But secretly she knew he enjoyed every moment of it, looked forward to the loving embrace of people that cared about him.

Save for those rare moments with her father, she did not have that experience.

The late autumn winds had pulled the last of the leaves from the trees, tossing them about the ground like a dirty mosaic, the pattern of it lost to the ravages of time. Bold reds and crisp yellows all mingled with the brown-green of grass readying itself for another long blanketing of Mississippi snow, the only contrast to the white and shadowy grays of the landscape before her. Dry, skeletal branches reached for the sky as if imploring with their fragile limb-like fingers for some reprieve from the coming cold.

And it was quiet, so horribly and terribly silent. Like some all powerful being had hit the mute button on this slice of the world.

She could taste winter in the air, feel it swirling in her blood more than sense it in the eddying currents of the wind. It coated the back of her throat with its death-like tang, adding another twist of foreboding to her already frightened heart. That sense of impending doom was just another bit of proof that she really came from this place, that she truly was part of the Banes family.

Regardless of her feelings to the contrary.

The house loomed before her, a massive colonial structure right out of the movies. The gravel drive was as white as moonlight and as perfectly aligned as she remembered, winding its way to the sprawling three story monstrosity that had held her captive as a child. She tried not to glare at the thing, tried very hard to see the house with eyes of maturity and not with the eyes of her youth. Try as she might, she couldn't stop her past from tainting her present. Optimus Prime, the leader of the Autobots, had once cautioned her about such things. The past had its place and part in making a sentient what he or she was today. But it was dangerous to dwell in the darkness of memory and allow it to eclipse the light of the future.

Because of his kindness, his sheltering of her and taking her under his proverbial wing after the events of Mission City, she had agreed to come to this place again. To face her past and learn from it, that it would not destroy her future. She just wished desperately that she didn't have to do it alone. Again, she forced herself to stop thinking of the negative and focus on the positive like Optimus had taught her. After today, she would never have to face that house again. After today, she could go visit Sam with a clear conscience and face their future together with bright hope.

The sounds of tires on the old dirt road behind her shook her from her reverie, and she turned to face a bus full of people in badly matched jackets and jeans, cameras flashing as pictures were taken. A man stood up at the front of the bus, and she could hear the loud speaker proclaiming his words to the gathered passengers. Ravenswood Manor was a local tourist attraction and probably the only thing worthy of seeing in the backwards little town of Englewood, Mississippi. It was said that the house had stood long before the American Civil War had ravaged the south, that the original foundation predated the American Revolutionary war, even.

She could readily believe that. The place had held a special place in her nightmares ever since she set foot into it. It wasn't hard to believe that the grounds that made up the enormous Ravenswood Estate had seen the atrocities of both wars. Not considering the atrocities it had seen in the times between those conflicts... and the times after.

Mikaela fought not to grab a handful of gravel and hurl it at the offending bus. How dare those people come to the place of her personal hell, taking pictures of a house that should have burned to the ground centuries ago? Could they not see the horror lurking beneath that lovely façade? Could they not taste the terrifying anticipation emanating from the very windows of the place, as if the house were a living thing waiting to suck the innocence and life out of its next victim?

_Of course they couldn't,_ she thought bitterly. They had to experience the sting before the illusion of beauty would shatter for them. And so they took their pictures, muttering in quiet awe as the tour guide rambled on about the "amazing history" of the Ravenswood Estate and the Banes family in general.

"If you only knew," she murmured, fighting back the angry tears. "If you only knew what went on there, and what would drive a man like my father to choose a life of crime just to get away from its legacy."

The bus left her standing alone at the gates again, and she gripped the intricate iron scrollwork tightly, letting her forehead fall against it. Not for the first time did she contemplate just hitch-hiking her way to the nearest bus station and calling Optimus or Bumblebee to come and get her. It was too much, coming to this place. It was too much horror and fear and everything in between. Her heart skipped a beat at the idea of walking through those double front doors alone, facing the family she had left behind in much the same way her father had all those years ago. It would have been so much better if she had someone with her, but that would have entailed a long explanation about her past, and that wasn't something she was willing to divulge to Sam or 'Bee just yet.

So that left her only two choices: go inside or run away like a coward. In her mind, only one of those was a viable option. Taking a deep breath, she picked up the handle to her rolling carryon suitcase and pushed open the gates. Ravenswood stared back at her as she started down the path, and she could swear that she heard a hideous voice rasp a _Welcome Home_ across that frightening autumn wind.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Complete strangers greeted her at the doors, pulling them open wide and smiling at her with fake sincerity. Judging by their crisp suits and plastered-on sympathy, she figured out within moments that they were from the funeral home. One woman in particular held a clipboard and politely asked her name, as if checking to see if she were on the VIP list or something. Once she confirmed that Mikaela was, indeed, part of the approved family, she was shown up the gleaming mahogany staircase to the second floor.

Mikaela wanted to tell the woman to just go away, to stop offering her false condolences for the loss of her grandmother. The verbal diarrhea the woman spewed out about how her grandmother, the late Lorilai Banes, was a sainted woman, a pillar of her community and how much she would be missed was absolute crap. She did her best to ignore the woman, a Beatrice if the name on her tasteful little badge was correct. The words _MacGregor and MacGregor Funeral Home… Servicing the Community with Tradition and Dignity for One Hundred Years_ glinted beneath her engraved name.

She tried to focus instead on putting one foot in front of the other, keeping her head down. But that lead her to take notice of the elegant – if a bit faded – hand-woven oriental runner that covered the deep mahogany hardwood of the hallway. That in turn brought up the memories of having to scrub and wax that floor over and over again until her fingers were raw and bleeding. It had been a familiar punishment for not being 'feminine enough' in her mannerisms. Gramma Lori had personally supervised the scrubbing, telling her in that prim and cultured voice that if Mikaela wanted to act like a heathen, and not a girl worthy of her station, than she could scrub floors like one.

She yanked her eyes upward, her hands and knees tingling with the remembered pain.

The same huge oil paintings decorated the hallway, displaying the proud heritage of the Banes family. To her, they looked like frozen ghosts, their eyes forever staring down at her in disapproval. She used to hate crossing this hallway as a child, having to look at those dead eyes and feel them follow her across the way. When she'd been exceptionally bad in Gramma Lori's eyes, she was forced to polish the glided frames until they glowed, no matter how much she cried about being afraid of them.

It made her nauseous, those staring, disapproving eyes and the swirl of memories that went with them. Her head felt light, the air suddenly hot against her skin and hard to breathe in. And still Beatrice droned on, extolling all the loving charity work the late Matron Lorilai Banes had participated in during her kind and generous life.

"Stop," Mikaela snapped, feeling like she was going to start screaming and never stop if Beatrice spoke one more lie. She held up her hand, palm facing outward towards the woman's face. "Just… stop. Look, uh, Beatrice, I can only handle so much pre-rehearsed bullshit before I start to loose my mind. I'm tired from my flight and I know the way to my room. Gramma Lori would have insisted that my old room was ready for this travesty of a funeral. So just leave me alone, please."

Beatrice looked shell-shocked at her words, and still managed to maintain more grace and dignity in her surprise than Mikaela could manage on her best day. No wonder the woman had been chosen to work this particular funeral. Lorilai Banes would have demanded nothing less. It was enough to make her want to puke all over the hardwood floor. Beatrice smiled politely, though that smile was more strained than before, nodded and walked away. Mikaela could almost hear the silent prissy sniff of southern disapproval as the woman went back down the stairs.

"Good job, 'Kae," she muttered to herself. "Not in the house more than five minutes and already you've managed to offend a completely nice lady. What's next, doing a tap-dance on your grandmother's grave before she's even in it?"

Shaking her head, she yanked her suitcase down the hallway in a hurry, heading for the farthest room at the end of the long wing. _I just want this all to be over with_, she thought viciously. _I just want to go home. No, better than home, I want to go to Diego Garcia when all this is over. I'll ask Sam to take the weekend and stay with me. I need the hot beaches and the nearness of sentients that actually give a damn about me. Going home to my shop just isn't going to cut it this time. I just have to get through twenty more hours. Just twenty more hours until the reading of that stupid will of hers and I can go home._

Her hand trembled only slightly on the brass handle of her bedroom door, her breath hitching again. She didn't want to go into that room, either. Memories threatened to erode her strength, carry her away in darkness and things she had thought long forgot. Mikaela closed her eyes tightly, taking deep and steadying breaths. Optimus' words floated to the forefront of her thoughts again, his kind and gentle wisdom urging her to face the things that frightened her and to emerge stronger for it.

And though she longed so much for his presence, and for Sam's presence most of all, she knew she had to do this alone. Opening her eyes, she shoved her way into the room.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Of course, there was no wi-fi in her wing of the house. No internet of any kind as well. Cell reception was as non-existent as her love for the place. And deep inside, she just knew that Lorilai Banes had orchestrated that on purpose. One last big 'screw you' to the spawn of the whore she had claimed ruined her beloved son. The icing on the cake was the bars on the windows, placed just perfectly so that she could only open the window an inch, just enough to get a timid taste of the freedom outside the walls but not enough to enjoy any of it.

She was forced to either pace around the overly-girlie room or go out and mingle with the rest of the Banes family. Neither seemed to be a good option.

The room was cream in coloring, done up in ash-colored heavy wood furniture. The bed was the same, she remembered, a massive four-poster thing with hand-knitted lace pouring down its sides and canopy. More lace made up the coverlet and the pillowcases, all done in an antique white. All of the furnishings were done in intricate scrollwork. All like something Scarlett O'Hara would have died to possess. The bed itself was as hard as a rock, designed to be so in order to improve a young woman's posture, or so she had been told. The single stool beneath the vast vanity was just as unforgiving, as was the lovely antique armchair beneath the windows.

She could just hear Gramma Lori now, that smooth and genteel southern voice echoing from the darker parts of her memory. "A young woman of breeding need not lean back in her seat. She always perches like a delicate finch on the edge, her knees and ankles touching and her hands folded politely in her lap. She does that regardless of if she is in public or in private. For charm shows its true face not in public like a display, but in how a woman chooses to behave in a private setting."

Mikaela had been an ugly little girl by Gramma Lori's standards, all gangly arms and legs and wild dark hair, way too tall to be considered delicate. She had had the grace of a rock and the desire to go racing through the grounds with all the little boys. She had wanted to play baseball when her Gramma had insisted on piano lessons and afternoon tea. Of course, all these faults did not rest with Mikaela herself, but with her mother… or so decreed Gramma Lori. And her grandmother had decided then and there to beat the wild gypsy out of her only granddaughter if it came to that.

She had already written off her son's wife as a lost cause, and as such took every opportunity to remove Mikaela from her care. Deep inside, Mikaela blamed her for the reason her mother had run off and left them alone. It wasn't too long after that that her father realized what his mother was doing, and lit out of Mississippi with just his daughter and his Harley motorcycle. All the way across the US wasn't far enough away from that woman. Even all the theft, all the things he had done in order to escape the legacy of his family wasn't enough to deter her.

When her father had gone to prison, it had been Gramma Lori that had filed for joint custody of Mikaela along with her mother's parents. Each and every summer until she was sixteen was spent in the hell that was Ravenswood Estate. Each and every summer spent with that horrible woman dictating every step and breath of her future.

Even now, dead and in a coffin, Lorilai Banes was still trying to ruin her life.

~*~*~*~*~*~

She had slept fitfully, tossing and turning, wrapped in nightmares. Most of them involved what she could remember of her mother, of a smiling face with hair as dark as hers and eyes the color of polished amethyst. They would have picnics together on the Ravenswood Estate, choosing to shelter under one of the large oak trees during the heavy summer days when the heat was thick like molasses and the breezes were heavy with the perfume of a thousand blooming flowers. Her mother would sing to her, tell her the old Grimm's Fairy Tales and not the Americanized Disney version.

They would make daisy chains of the flowers and wear them in their hair, dancing around to the natural music of summer birds and insects. And like all those fairytales, her grandmother would loom in one of the many windows of the house, staring at them with sharp disapproval.

Then her mother was gone one day, and all her things were packaged up and locked into the attic. The picnics stopped, the singing and the dancing stopped. She was given an old fashioned governess for her lessons, and then she was the special property of her grandmother for her 'true education.' The things she had had to do in order to win Gramma Lori's favor were unspeakable, even to herself.

Her eyes were dark with shadows when she dressed for the funeral, her face pale and drawn. She looked like she was deep into mourning like all the others. But it wasn't Lorilai that she was mourning, it was her mother and all the years of her childhood lost to the harsh lessons of a southern culture long forgotten. Her eyes were dry at the reading of the eulogy, her hands clutching her handbag with white-knuckles as person after person rose and said good things about that vicious harpy of a woman.

The sigh of relief that left her lips when the last shovel-full of earth hit the grave was also taken for sorrow. The woman was dead and buried now. She couldn't hurt her anymore. It was done.

The whole thing was almost over.

No one in her family noticed her impatience, mistaking it all for pain. Which was fine with her, truth be told. All she had to do was get through the reading of the will. Just hear the reading of the will and get the hell out of there. She had phoned ahead to Bumblebee the moment she had finished her breakfast downstairs, asking him to be at the estate at precisely six in the evening. She was already packed and ready to run for the hills.

He had offered to come to her right away, being in D.C. as part of Optimus Prime's entourage. It was the tone in her voice, the fatigue and sorrow and anger all jumbled together, that had him worried. She had had to fight back the need to tell him yes, to scream at the top of her lungs for him to come and save her. But she didn't, couldn't if she wanted to face Sam and Optimus again and not feel like a coward. If she couldn't handle her own family, what made her think she could handle fighting the Decepticons?

When she declined the offer, he had pointedly told her that he would be there before six anyway. And when she was ready, he was willing to lay rubber as fast as she wanted to get away from whatever was bothering her so much. She kept that thought firmly in place as she walked into the library room, taking her seat among fifty other hopeful relatives. No doubt many had designs on Lorilai Bane's sizable fortune, or maybe even wanted the house, itself.

They could have it, she thought bitterly. And if one of them had the good sense to burn it to the ground afterward, she would gleefully bring the marshmallows.

The lawyer, an old southern gentleman with wisps of white hair clinging to his balding scalp, wedged his sizable girth into the wingtip leather chair behind the desk. He began to read, listing little things that went to this person or that, chunks of money divided into portions according to Lorilai's shrewd decisions. She tuned it all out, thinking only of the feel of Bumblebee's leather seats, the smell of the open road as they hauled ass towards Sam's college. And then there would be peace, the warmth of his arms around her… and she could finally break down and sob with relief.

Because the Banes family legacy was going to die with Lorilai Banes, at least her branch of it.

"And to my only acknowledged granddaughter and principal heir," the lawyer stated, catching her attention and filling her heart with dread. "I leave the bulk of my estate. Ravenswood and all associated claims and grounds go to her. All items contained on and within the real property known as Ravenswood Estate in the County of Mallard, city of Englewood, state of Mississippi, as legally bound by Constitution of the United States of America, withholding only those items hereby given out to the named individuals within this will, are forthwith and immediately bequeathed without exception to Mikaela Lorilai Banes, daughter of Alexander James Banes, my only acknowledged son, to do with as she sees fit."

The world began to swim in and out of focus, her breath laboring in her lungs. "No," she managed to whisper. "No, no, no…"

The ground rushed up to greet her.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I have to admit that I was so nervous writing this story. But I guess I did something right as the reviews seem to tell me. :D Thank you all for reviewing and adding this to your favorites and alerts! ::Bounces around in happy circles:: I was worried that I couldn't capture Mikaela at all, which is one of the reasons I normally write OC fics. So thank you all so much for reading this story and reviewing it. It really helps to keep the ideas flowing and fresh! :D

Disclaimer: I own nothing. I can't even begin to wish that I did. I am not making any money from this. Just borrowing the characters for fun. Please do not sue.

* * *

It was summer again in that horrible unreality of her dreams, and she nothing but a slip of a girl. She couldn't have been more than four at the time, and yet, in that way that all unpleasant dreams possessed, she held the maturity of her real self within her tiny dream-given body.

They were in the massive hedge maze behind the main manor house on the Ravenswood plantation, she and her mother. The image of her mother's dancing purple eyes and swirling multi-colored skirts filled her with a kind of light-hearted joy she had not thought possible in so young a child. It was a feeling she had only encountered after the battle of Mission City, curled up on 'Bee's hood with Sam, watching the sun set behind Optimus Prime. He stood in his bi-pedal mode, sending out the signal to all surviving Autobots that a home had been found for their kind. Ratchet and Ironhide sat a few paces away in their alt modes, chatting softly in Cybertronian.

She had felt so safe, so loved and protected and… and like she had been part of a true family again. It seemed like only now, now that she was trapped in her dreams and within the physical foundation of the source of her nightmares, that she would recognize that feeling for what it was. Being there with them had been like dancing in the summer breeze with her mother. It had given her such amazing carefree joy.

"Mikaela…" her mother sang, twirling in the balmy summer air. She danced across the flagstones in too-fast and yet super-slow motion, twisting ever closer to the entrance of that scary maze. "Mikaela… come find your mommy. Mikaela…"

Mikaela's laughter died in her little throat, chubby hands and legs reaching outward as she ran towards her mother. She didn't want to go into that scary place, knowing that anyone could be lurking around the plant walls, that it was too easy to get lost for hours there. Her mother knew that, too. Knew that her daughter always cried every time they approached the maze. And still the source of her love moved closer and closer to that scary place.

The air began to grow chill the closer she got to the maze, the leaves of the trees dying in moments and turning into what should have taken them months to become. They fell like dry husks, smelling of decay and badness instead of like the soothing spices of autumn. And when they touched the ground at her tiny bare feet, they disintegrated to dust. Rough sharp dust that blew against her unprotected legs and arms where her summer dress didn't quite cover.

"Momma!" she cried, delicate fingers closing and opening against her palms, reaching with all her might for the warm and safe embrace that would never come.

"Mikaela, come find me…" the sing-song lilting melody of her mother's words faded slowly, and the woman herself disappeared into the thorny maze walls. "Mikaela…"

She ran, though her adult mind told her that she wouldn't make it in time, that she would never see her mother's beautiful face again. Never touch those lustrous ebony locks, or watch with wonder when her mother sat at the vanity table, applying tiny bits of makeup to make herself pretty for her husband. These thoughts were foreign to a childlike mind, alien and scary and all her little four-year-old self could do was run. Run towards the last place she had seen her mother.

Run… and cry.

The falling leaves and splintering dust turned into icy needles of snow, the normally soft ivy of the hedge maze into holly bushes to prick little fingers. Red dots of blood showed up on those too-green leaves like a mockery of holiday berries. And still her mother's voice called, the delighted laughter somehow more horrible against the terror of the darkening sky. Gone was the bright and unending summer blue, instead replaced with the grey-black of death-giving winter.

"Mikaela… Come to your Mommy. Come find me…"

"Momma!" she sobbed, sitting down on the frigid flagstones, tiny fists pressed to her eyes as she wailed. "Momma…"

~*~*~*~*~*~

Mikaela bolted upright, a scream on her lips that was part adult outrage and part childish fear. Outrage for the mother that was gone, that had left her daughter in the hands of a cold bitch of a grandmother, and fear from the remembered horrors of knowing that wonderful, kind mother was never coming home again. She would be alone forever in this terrible place, lost without knowing that warm love. Mikaela buried her face in her hands and wept, crying as if her heart had broken. As if her mother had run out on her all over again.

"I hate this place," she sobbed, wiping at her tears with the backs of her hands. "I hate this place. I hate it. I don't want to be here anymore. Oh god, why can't I just go home?"

But this was her home now, her memory taunted. Gramma Lori had ensured that every bit of Ravenswood was given to her granddaughter, that she would never truly be free of her heritage. To some that might have sounded like a kind and generous thing to do for a granddaughter. To anyone that knew the truth of the Banes Family Legacy, that would have rang out as the curse it was meant to be. This was her home now, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Bile rose up in her throat at the thought, so much so that she leaned over the edge of the bed and threw up until there was nothing left in her to expel. And then she just lay there dry-heaving and crying and dry-heaving all over again. Never had she felt so helpless. Even in Mission City or in Cairo, save for when she thought Sam had died forever, she had always felt like there was at least some measure of control. Here, she felt there was none.

Nothing but this endlessly large house filled with dark antiques and even darker secrets.

"Warrior goddess?" a small voice asked. There was a heavy thump on the bed, followed by a stream of clicks and chirps that she knew to be Cybertronian. "What kind of house of horrors is this? This isn't a bed, it's a rock that's pretending to be a bed. Who the frag sleeps on this?"

She knew the voice, knew that the creature making the sounds wasn't human and therefore should have found it amusing that he chose to sound like a third-rate New Jersey mobster. In her agony, her helplessness, she could not muster the slightest smile for Wheelie, the pint-sized former Decepticon-turned-Autobot drone that was always never far from her side.

"I-I do," she whispered, pushing herself into a sitting position with arms that felt like rubber. "At least, I did when I was a child. My grandmother insisted on it."

Wheelie crawled his way up over the lacy duvet, squeaking or cursing here and there when the lace caught in his gears or his armor and he had to take the time to delicately disengage himself. "You slept on a rock and used this detection net as a cover? You sure this broad wasn't a Decepticon torture drone?"

That finally brought a bit of a smile to her lips, and she reached down to pluck him from the covers and sit him on the pillow beside her. "There were times I wondered that myself," she admitted, fighting the impulse to grab the little guy and hug him for all she was worth. She needed the affection right now. And part of her found it utterly depressing that, sitting in a house filled with her own blood relations, it was an alien that offered her the most comfort.

"How did you get here? I thought I told you to wait with Bumblebee?"

Wheelie tilted his head to one side, his blue optics—freshly replaced by Ratchet—narrowing as he did so. "I heard the humans say you fainted, but are you sure you didn't hit your head on the way down?"

The smile vanished. "Why do you ask that?"

"Warrior goddess, the yellow one and I have been here for ten of your Earth hours. You were supposed to meet us at the gate at six o'clock by human time. When you didn't show up, he sent me in to find out what happened."

Mikaela's bottom lip trembled, and the tears fell again. "I've been unconscious for ten hours and nobody called anybody?"

"Woah, woah, easy on the waterworks, hot stuff," Wheelie held out his hands in an imploring way, optics wide with his terror. He hated to see her cry, and like the human males on the planet, he had absolutely no idea what to do when the femme's eyes leaked fluid like that. "'Bee called someone, a local doctor I think, to check you out. He prescribed rest and fluids, so this femme designated Beatrice had you brought back here. Said this was the room you preferred."

She couldn't stop the flow of tears, hating herself for it. Wheelie had meant to be comforting with his words, but the fact that—again—an alien had to call for a doctor instead of her own family drove home the point of how truly alone she was. Those jealous people down stairs had probably hoped that she h ad died, too. That way they could carve up the Banes Fortune into slices like fat bastards staring at a pie. No one had come to see her, to offer to help her. She was fairly certain that one of the funeral home ushers had carried her up the stairs to her room.

"Where's 'Bee now?" she choked out, curling up on her side on the bed and huddling beneath the blankets.

Wheelie looked on with helplessness written all over his face plates. He did the only thing he could. He risked the dreaded lace duvet to curl up against her, tucking his head under her chin and placing one clawed hand gently on her shoulder. The slight purring sound he made, the only way he knew how to express comfort, was rewarded by the warm feel of her hands holding him in return.

"Easy there," he soothed as best as he could. "He's on his way back here now, I'd suspect. Had to go to the airport to pick up Sam."

She froze. "Sam?"

"Yeah," the concern returned to his voice. "Remember, warrior goddess? The three of us and a road trip to that college once you were done here? When we learned what had happened, 'Bee contacted Sam and Sam told us to stay put. He was jumping on the first flight to Mississippi. Should be here any minute now."

::Tell me you are on your way back here pronto!:: Wheelie sent across the subspace to 'Bee's specific frequency.

::Just picked up Sam and his luggage. ETA is an hour.::

::An HOUR?!:: somehow Wheelie managed to squeal even across subspace. ::Something tells me the warrior goddess doesn't have an hour.::

There was a pause, followed by Sam's voice coming across the channel. ::What do you mean she doesn't have an hour? Tell me what the hell's going on!::

::Is she in danger?:: Bumblebee sent through right after.

Wheelie had the impression that 'Bee had just opened a channel inside the cab of his alt mode, transmitting everything the human within was saying. Which was fine with him. The more advice he got in dealing with a sobbing Mikaela, the better. This just wasn't like her at all. His warrior goddess was strong and determined and never showed any kind of weakness. She even kicked the verbal aft of Sam time and again over a webcam, which was impressive to Wheelie's way of thinking. Any femme that could subdue her mate across a subspace channel—nevertheless right in front of him—was a femme worthy of respect and fear.

Sobbing in a fetal position didn't fit into that image of respect.

It was faster to just send the entire conversation to them in one data burst than try to reason it out. He'd let Bumblebee find a way to explain it to Sam.

::Tell her I'm coming:: Sam replied, his voice a mix of upset and comfort all at the same time. ::Tell her that she's not alone, and that 'Bee and I will be there to see her through this whole thing. And all those so-called relatives in there better pray that they don't get in my way. They're already on my shit list for all this.::

::Pray that they don't get in OUR way:: 'Bee corrected. ::If you think I'm sitting this one out, you need to have Ratchet scan your processors. I'll holo-form my way into the place if I have to.::

::I thought Ratchet said not to use your holo-form if you have to interact in a verbal situation. You're vocal processors still aren't working right:: This, from Sam.

::I don't need to use my voice to get my point across:: 'Bee interjected grimly. ::You'll just introduce me as a mute friend. I'll work on the story behind it if they ask. Though it sounds like these people care more about themselves than anyone around them. I doubt I'll get so much as a second glance.::

::Well, whatever you do, make it quick:: Wheelie cut in. ::She needs more than just me right now. And the sooner we get through with this, the sooner we can get the frag out of this place. Something about it gives me the creeps.::

::Understood. ETA in thirty:: 'Bee replied, revving up the RPMs as he kicked up the speed. ::I'll pay the tickets if we get caught and Optimus can yell at me later. Mikaela is our main concern right now::

Wheelie closed the channel, continuing to pat Mikaela's shoulder. "You're not alone, warrior goddess. We're with you. Sam will be here before you can blink, and, uh, so will 'Bee. Hang in there."

She tried to believe his words, tried to push aside her nightmares. As the silence settled in, though, she thought she could detect the faint whiff of Gramma Lori's perfume or hear the slight whisper of her slippered feet on the hall outside her door…


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I want to apologize for the long wait on some of my stories. I recently lost a good friend of mine and fellow fanfic writer and the loss was much harder than I anticipated. It really stunted whatever creative power I had and left me in a state of much sorrow. It's hard to realize just how much people influence our lives and our passions until they are no longer there. For the next while all my stories are going to be dedicated to her.

**AJ. I will miss you. I will miss you and your laughing encouragement more than I can ever say. This one is for you.**

Special thanks to Razorgaze as my Beta, and Hummergrey for her constant friendship during this sad time. You both render me speechless with your skills, friendship and dedication. Please check out their fics. The links are in my profile page.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OC's. I am not making any money from this. Please do not sue.

* * *

She couldn't stand to spend another moment in that room. It mattered not that Sam and 'Bee were less than an hour away, or the fact that she would find no comfort in whatever gaggle of so-called 'relatives' still remained in the house. For the longest time fear kept her from heading towards that oak door, turning the antique brass knob and facing all that remained of Lorilai Banes's legacy. Fear that maybe the old woman would be standing on the other side, waiting for her with her lacy dresses and pearls and fans and all manner of feminine trappings with which to hide sharp nails and sharper words.

Unconsciously she hid her arms behind her back, feeling all over again the hot sting of her grandmother's grasp, those iron-hard nails leaving scars where they bit into her tender skin. Just glancing at that door brought it all back, so much so that she took to her bed again, hiding beneath the duvet. Wheelie obediently curled up with her, knowing all too well the fear of his elders and the remembered pain of punishments for not being perfect.

His presence alone, the look in his optics as he huddled with her underneath the childlike faux-safety of the blankets, was enough to change her fear into rage.

Damn it, she had stood eye to optic with Megatron—MEGATRON!—and had not hidden or ran. She had driven backwards through a combat zone with a wounded Bumblebee strapped to the back of her stolen tow-truck! And, as if that wasn't enough to earn her her courage merit badge, she'd been teleported to Egypt, stayed at Sam's side through his near death experience, and still was able to look at the Autobots without fear. She wasn't little 'Kay Banes anymore. She was Mikaela Banes, a woman who did not run from danger.

A woman that did not run from the memories of a dead relative that no longer had the power to harm her.

"Warrior goddess?" Wheelie asked hesitantly, his sensors picking up on the sudden calmness that swept through her.

She stared into his optics, remembering the courage it had taken to grab him with the welding tools in her father's shop, the strength it had taken to interrogate the little guy when knowing that he could manifest weapons in the blink of an eye. After all, a simple Nokia cell phone had displayed awesome weaponry in its tiny little life span. Why not a drone the size of a small radio car? It was the fact that he hadn't tried to kill her that saved his spark, and the knowledge that he really didn't want to hurt anyone or anything that allowed him to take his place with the Autobots.

That had taken courage on his part, too. To turn to the enemy side and ask asylum, knowing they had every right to blast you to bits. If he could have the courage to do that, then she could have the courage to face her blood relations.

"This is my house now," she whispered back. "This is _my_ house. And I shouldn't feel afraid to explore what is mine, right?"

"Right," he answered slowly, optics narrowing. "Does that mean we're going out that door now?"

"It does," she nodded, trying to screw up her new-found courage. "Want to come with me?"

"What part of 'we' didn't register in your processors," he replied with his usual snide snicker. "I'm not gonna let you face that horde of organic losers alone. Besides, if I did, 'Bee would have my parts for a new hood ornament."

Mikaela smiled, understanding the truth in his words. He tried to so hard to be tough, and admitting that he wanted to stay with her because he worried for her didn't sound like a tough bot. So of course he defaulted back to a supposed threat. She leaned in and kissed him quickly between the optics, laughing for the first time in days at how he groused about strange human customs and how he was going to remove the lipstick print before anyone noticed it.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Sam stared at the ironwork gates that lead to the Ravenswood Plantation and simultaneously tried not to gape and frown all at once. Moonlight filtered through the dead bare branches of hundreds of skeletal trees, dry leaves rustling in the cold autumn air like scurrying rats across the barren earth. Even the gates themselves added to the muted horror of the place with their absolute silence. If they had creaked in the wind like something out of a b-rated horror flick, he would have been able to laugh. It would have been too many clichés all at once to be truly frightening.

But the gates were pristine, well oiled and solid in their opposing stance. And there were no clouds in the frigid black sky, nothing to cast shadows over the landscape or dull the feeling that something in there was waiting for them to enter, holding its collective breath in anticipation. Everything was revealed with a kind of stark clarity, from the outline of the massive sprawling house in the distance to the too-white gravel of the driveway.

Being able to see all of that only made the trepidation worse. Not being able to see Mikaela enhanced the horror all the more.

"I can see why she hates this place," Sam murmured, keeping one hand on the open driver's side door of the yellow Camaro and one hand firmly planted on the roof. One leg was still inside, as if his subconscious recognized dangers that his conscious mind ignored, and in a fit of self-preservation had kept him half inside the car. "I thought Aunt Trudy's place was creepy. This place takes the cake."

'Bee's agreement was expressed with a clip of the Twilight Zone theme.

Sam shot the car a rueful grin. "Not helping, 'Bee."

The radio tuning knob moved on its own, cycling through channels and cobbling together enough words to create a sentence. "Not meant to. This location makes me nervous, too."

His grin faded, turning into a frown. "You picking up anything on your scanners?"

"Negative, partner. Only organics in the vicinity, save for Wheelie."

"Good," he nodded, patting the roof reassuringly. Though, as his eyes did their own scan of the area, he honestly had to wonder which one of them he was reassuring with that gesture. "Good. Okay, let's do this. Let's get Mikaela and hit the road."

Sam climbed back inside, hands on the wheel for show. 'Bee sent out a small electronic burst, easily fooling the sensors on the gate into thinking that the correct key code had been entered. Soundlessly, the Banes Family crest, woven into the center of the towering gates, parted to allow them entrance. Just as quietly, the flashy yellow Camaro slowly made its way down the crushed marble path towards the house.

As the gates closed behind them, Sam had to push aside the feeling that he was being locked into some kind of prison.

~*~*~*~*~*~

They had all given her the strangest of looks as she wandered down the hallways. Mikaela had to tell herself that it was partly due to the fact that she was the new mistress of Ravenswood and mostly due to the way she clutched what appeared to be a toy car to her chest. Then again, the odd looks might have been over the fact that she had her hair down, her makeup slightly askew, and that she was wearing jeans of all things. Lorilai Banes would not have been caught dead with so much as a hair out of place before exiting her private rooms, nevertheless wearing pants.

Even in her silk-lined casket, she had looked like the definition of perfection.

Mikaela pushed those thoughts aside, pausing in her trek only to ask a wandering servant where she could find the nearest phone. Obediently he showed her into a massive library-type of room, four times as grand as the room in which the will was read. Normally she would have taken the time to stare at shelf upon shelf of leather-bound books, delighted that now she would be able to read them when before it was forbidden. However, the house did not feel like it was hers and as such she kept her eyes down and all but ran for the phone.

She placed a single call to the gateman and to the butler, letting both know to expect Sam at any moment. They replied that "Mr. Samuel James Witwicky would be showed to the east sitting room upon arrival. If madam would like, refreshments would be provided in whatever variety she desired."

_If. Madam. Would. Like_. The words were almost enough to have her dry heaving again.

She was so _NOT_ the Madam Banes. She would _never _be the Madam Banes. Not if it meant having to stay in this place with its bad memories and even worse secrets. If it hadn't been nearly midnight, she would have called the nearest realtor and put the entire place up for sale that very moment. She was beginning to panic again, and knew that that reaction wasn't going to help her at all. The time for panic had passed. The need for rational choices had arrived. Sam, she tried to tell herself. Everything would be alright when Sam got there. He would calm her, and he wouldn't be blinded by so many memories. He'd see everything with clear, fresh eyes.

He would be able to help her make the right decision. And then they could get away from here. They would never have to look back.

"Warrior goddess," Wheelie said, placing a hand on her leg.

She looked up from her fingers, not realizing that she had placed her face in her hands, or that she had been crying again. "What?"

"Several organics are standing outside the doors to this room, with several more joining them as we speak."

A small curse left her lips, her hands balling up into fists. Anger began to replace the shock and fear, anger that these people were just _now_ showing up to see her. "Great. Just great. My dear relations won't even give me one night of rest, huh? I pass out on my face and they won't lift a hand to help me, but now that I'm walking around, they feel good enough to start asking me for money and stuff. Well, this is my house now. And they can all get the hell out of it."

Mikaela threw open the double doors, the words of hate on her tongue—

—and nearly fell over at the sight. It looked like every member of the vast Ravenswood staff was standing before her. From elderly to the young, from the kitchen help to the head maid, all arrayed before her in their immaculately pressed black and white uniforms. There were so many of them, all with their faces turned to her with mixed emotions. Some were hopeful. Some wore small smirks of distain. And the more experienced, seasoned members of the crew wore no expression at all.

"Madam," a middle-aged man spoke crisply, though not without politeness. "It is good to see you on your feet again. The staff has been arranged for your inspection. Mrs. Hutchenson, the head chef, also has the menus for tomorrow morning for your approval. We are sorry to have them to you so late in the day. Your… need for rest," he said delicately, with the hint of a smile. "Made it difficult to ascertain your choices until now."

Her courage fled, the weight of all those faces staring at her, all those lives that depended upon the Banes family for their welfare, shattering what little she had managed to build up. Her eyes widened, filled with tears… and suddenly she felt four years old again, staring at the entrance to that vile maze and knowing she was utterly powerless.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I live! Apologies for being away for so long. Life has a funny way of interjecting itself when you least expect it. Thank you again to everyone that sticks with this story and enjoys watching how the mystery unfolds. It has been a joy to write and I'm glad that others find it enjoyable to read as well.

Many thanks to my two betas: Razorgaze and Hummergrey. I couldn't do this without your help and honesty when I need it. Please read their stories. I have the links in my profile page. They are fantastic!

Disclaimer: I own nothing but any OC I put in there. I am not making any money from this. Please don't sue.

* * *

She couldn't remember all of their names. There were just too many faces in that crowd that had changed, too many new people to mix in with the old specters that haunted her sleep and her memories almost as much as her grandmother. Mikaela remembered Mrs. Hutchenson, the head cook, or more to the point the heavy wooden spoon that used to smack her fingers when she'd try to sneak a snack as a child. She had always been hungry, she recalled, due to Grandmother Lorilai's instructions that a lady of quality should always eat lightly. Just like a lady of quality should always leave something behind on her plate. And a lady of quality should finish or abandon her meal in perfect harmony with their host or hostess.

Which translated, at least in the Banes home, to eating in tandem with her Grandmother. And Grandmother Lorilai always ate like a bird.

Instructions had been given to the wait-staff that, due to Mikaela being 'unfashionably tall' that she would have to compensate by being lithe and very slender in order to attract a proper husband. So no cookies or sweets could be handed to her like all the other children of the servants. No sodas or candies or even a snack of nuts or fruit. Nothing for the tall and ugly child that had to be turned into a princess somehow, someway.

That face peered back at her from the crowd of servants, peering at her with shrewd eyes that the passage of time had done little to soften. It was her name that had faded, at least in Mikaela's mind, until the butler had reminded her of it. But Mrs. Tavers's name was clear and sharp in her brain, bringing with it the tingling flash of pain at how those bony fingers could grip her arm with unrelenting strength, dragging the child Mikaela towards that hateful bucket of too-hot water and ghastly-smelling cleaning rags. Her fingertips and knees stung as her vision filled with the memory of scrubbing floors as punishment for something she did wrong but couldn't remember doing.

Others were there, too, though thankfully not as many as there could have been. It seems as though much of the monsters that had plagued her childhood at either moved on… or preceded Lorilai Banes to the grave.

"Madam," the butler said again, a questioning look in his eyes. "Are you sure you are feeling well? If you do not mind me saying, you look pale. Perhaps you need to rest…"

"I need Sam," she heard herself mumbling, her lips stiff with fighting the need to let loose the sobs in her heart. "I need 'Bee."

The questioning look vanished, replaced by something akin to joy that at least he had an answer for her. "Master Samuel and Master … um… 'Bee' as he called himself, are awaiting your pleasure in the Tudor Morning room. They have been here for the past ten minutes."

She was running before she knew what she was doing, Wheelie held so tightly to her chest that she barely heard the little squeak of protest. It couldn't' be helped, not in her panic, not in her mad dash throughout the house. Shouts ranging from alarm to outright contempt at her 'hysteric antics' followed in her wake as she plowed her way through the throng of gathered people, shouts that barely registered in her thoughts. Her pulse pounded thickly in her ears, the rushing of her blood in her veins sounding like rapids.

Pure panic had set in, the dam of her emotions shattered by the though that Sam and 'Bee were there. Sam and 'Bee had _been_there for over ten minutes while she had wallowed in her misery. They could save her. They could help her make this nightmare go away. They could take her to her real home, to Diego Garcia with the Autobots, where her enemies had solid forms that bullets could hurt.

Where her enemies were not the ghosts of her lonely past.

It was unnerving to say the least.

Heavy brocade draperies, their finely woven gold threads glimmering like jewels in the muted light from the Tiffany lamps, covered what had to be more window that a building had a right to own. The entire length of one wall of the room rectangular room was covered over with the wine-and-gold curtains, the fabric so thick and heavy that it required mammoth-sized ornately carved rods to hold them in place. An even those were heavily gilded with the precious metal. Sam couldn't help but realize that the gold on those rods was age darkened to a dignified glimmer instead of a high-polished shine. He also couldn't help but realize that one of those curtain rods could probably have paid for his entire college education. And that was just the curtain rods in the room.

That didn't count the Tiffany lamps, the Tiffany clock on the mantle of the fireplace, nor the Queen Anne antique chairs the seriously looked old enough for Her Highness, Herself, to have sat in them.

"I don't think anything from a department store has ever graced an inch of this place," Sam murmured, glancing around again.

"I don't think anything from this century has ever graced an inch of this place," Bee replied, shaking his head.

Sam's head whipped around, staring at the young man who was in turn staring at one of the many paintings on the wall. The wall that wasn't covered in drapes, that was. It was still a shock to hear Bee's voice, though; the English accented-flavored words flowed so effortlessly from those holographic lips.

Bee's chosen form was that of a youth around the same age as Sam, himself. Though with light blond hair kissed here and there with streaks of sun-bleached white. Bee's skin was a golden tan that would make most models glare in envy, his build that of a pro-surfer, all rangy high and whip-like muscles. He'd chosen a simple pair of kaki paints and a short-sleeved button-down shirt, though, both loose enough on his frame to be polite and yet the untucked shirt lent casualness to the look. Simple loafers completed his human guise.

It was the eyes that gave him away, though. Eyes too blue to be natural. That was a pitfall of the holographic program, and the singular reason why the Autobots did not use it unless in extreme emergencies. Those eyes stood out more than a driver-less car heading down the street, believe it or not. As Ratchet had explained it, most people will gloss over the car. Most people will not gloss over the eyes. It was one of the main attractive aspects of a human, one of the first items noticed. Until Wheeljack managed to fix that flaw in the projectors, they would maintain their alt modes in public.

Sam had to agree about the eyes, however. Though Mikaela's body had caught is attention, it was her eyes that had hooked him. He sighed, restraining the need to get up and search this eerie house room by freaking room until he found her.

"You'll do more harm than good if you don't calm down," Bee said into the silence, turning to stare at another painting. "You're too tense and we don't want to put these people on edge."

"You'll do more harm than good if you don't put those sunglasses back on," he snapped irritably. "And I have a right to be tense. You heard the conversation Wheelie sent us."

Bee nodded. "I want to get her out of here as well. But we have to do this carefully. Optimus has too much going on in the Nation's Capital to smooth over our mistakes if we 'bust her out' as you put it."

"This is taking too long."

"It's only been ten minutes, Sam."

He got up to pace. "Then it's been ten minutes too long. I don't see why we can—"

Sam cut off as Bee's head whipped towards the door. "She's here. Sam, you might need to brace yourself."

"Brace myself? For wha-"

The door of the morning room flew open as if the force of a blast was behind it. There was a streak of brown hair, the sound of Wheelie screeching as he was tossed into the air, and then Mikaela barreled into his chest, knocking them both to the ground. Sobs wracked her body, great hiccupping sobs that seemed without end. Sam wrapped his arms around her, felt her latch onto him as if he were the only thing holding her to the world. When his eyes made it back to the door, they burned with raw anger at the man filling it.

"I think it would be best we all had a little talk," Bee put in, ushering the butler into the room and closing the door behind him. He set Wheelie onto a chair, having—apparently—caught the poor little bot when Mikaela tossed him in the air. "We need a few things explained to us before things start to get out of hand."

Holding Mikaela to his chest, Sam pushed himself up to a sitting position, pulling her into his lap. "I think things have already gotten out of hand. What did you do to her?"

The butler sighed slightly, and then folded his hands behind his back. "Perhaps it is best if I start at the beginning. My name is Bartholomew Worthington, and I have had the honor of serving the late Madam Banes for the past seventeen years…"


End file.
